The Visit
by Crocodile In Spelling
Summary: It's been three years since the war ended, and Draco Malfoy never got over it. A visit from Harry Potter may help to set things right.


Author's Note: Standard disclaimers apply. Feedback is very welcome.

**Draco** Malfoy was used to being in control. To having power. That's how it had been – before. But he hadn't been in control in a long, long time.

He could pinpoint the last moment when he had had the upper hand. He had been the one who had fixed the vanishing cabinet, the one who had allowed the Death Eaters into Hogwarts on that fateful night. His role had been pivotal.

It had all been downhill from there. He had had no control over who entered the school. He still shuddered at the memory of Fenrir Greyback. And then, up at the Astronomy Tower…

He'd relived that night so many times. At first it was all he could think about. It came to him in fragments. His own terror, his shame, Dumbledore's weakness, and the Death Eaters goading him on. The realization that he was in far, far over his head – even further than he had been while spending day after nerve-wracking day closed up with the vanishing cabinet. And then Snape, and the headmaster's plea, and the flash of green light. The blood and the bodies and the darkness.

Gradually that night had been eclipsed by the everyday horrors of the war. The woman who had dangled in midair, just a few rooms from where he was currently sitting. Everything that he'd seen, so much of which he'd tried fervently to forget. The degradation of his family, who had been so loyal. Every day he'd spent at Hogwarts thereafter, uncomfortably learning how to kowtow to Crabbe and Goyle. The fire in that godforsaken Room of Requirement. Being saved by Potter – of course, that was just like Potter, infuriatingly bold and benevolent. And none of it had been in his control.

Lately he had wondered if he had had more opportunities to take control than he had thought. All of those times when he had looked away or hedged his answers, could he have stood up to vindicate himself or his family? Should he have betrayed the cause he had grown up with once he was confronted with its grim reality? It seemed easier now to imagine such a possibility, since he and his family were no longer in danger. But when he thought back to his position at the time – which he often did – he felt sick to his stomach. He had done what he had needed to do to survive. By being a coward, he thought sourly, he had survived to enjoy the post-war era in all its lack of glory.

True, he didn't want for material goods. Once the Manor had been stripped of any Dark objects, he had been allowed to return. As he had been a young wizard, and a reluctant bearer of the Dark Mark, he had been treated with a leniency that was not afforded to some of his elders. There had been talk of rehabilitation, but mainly the Ministry kept a watchful eye on him. He obliged by not doing anything at all, really. He had rarely left the Manor in the last few years.

In fact, his reluctance to leave the Manor was causing him a bit of trouble. Yesterday he was supposed to have checked in with the Ministry, but he hadn't been able to muster up the energy to go. He hadn't been particularly happy with his choice, but on the other hand it hadn't felt like much of a choice at all. Still, it had been stupid to attract the Ministry's ill will after escaping notice for so long.

Now he was paying the price. He had received an owl last night in which he had been curtly reminded of his obligations and told to expect a representative from the Ministry for a thorough interview and inspection.

Draco sighed and fussed with a piece of toast. He was grateful that he still had a couple of house-elves who had not been killed by Death Eaters in a fit of pique. It was humiliating to admit, but he didn't have the foggiest idea how to acquire or prepare food. Not that he'd had much of an appetite of late. When he'd first come back to the Manor, after his parents' arrest, he had had to continually reassure the house-elves that it wasn't their fault. He couldn't stand to see them punish themselves. He'd long since lost his taste for violence.

He ran his hand through his silvery blond hair. It was longish, a touch too long to be presentable. There wasn't much he could do about it at this point, though, unless he fancied a house-elf trying his hand at a haircut. He'd had his hair cut properly last time he was in town, but that had been months ago.

His mother would have been dismayed to see him receive visitors in this state. His parents had been a consummate host and hostess. As a child, he had seen many visitors come to the Manor, and he'd absorbed the belief that guests should be received quite grandly. Of course, that had fallen off during the period in which his home had served as Death Eater headquarters, but Draco hoped to put on a good face for the Ministry. The house-elves had tidied up and would be ready with refreshments if desired. The rest was up to Draco, and that made him somewhat doubtful. He felt that his ability to be a gracious host was impeded by the fact that the idea of visitors made his skin crawl.

**Harry** Potter, official representative of the Ministry of Magic, Apparated at the end of the long drive leading to Malfoy Manor. He took a few steps up the drive and then stopped. He remembered the last time he had been at Malfoy Manor. He and his friends had been imprisoned. Hermione had been tortured. Dobby, against all odds, had rescued them, leading to his death. There was nothing that left him particularly inclined to go inside, except for his loyalty to Kingsley.

Kingsley Shacklebolt had been appointed Minister of Magic after the war; Harry himself also joined the Ministry at that time. The previous day, Kingsley had called Harry into his office.

"This morning a wizard of your acquaintance was supposed to come here for a supervisory appointment, but he never came. I'm sure you remember Draco Malfoy," said Kingsley.

"Malfoy," said Harry. The name felt almost foreign on his lips. Harry was surprised to realize how long it had been since he had thought of Malfoy at all. At one point Malfoy had been a very important – if unpleasant – part of his life.

"You suspect some sort of trouble?" asked Harry.

"I have some ideas," said Kingsley. "Tell me, you are aware of the terms of Malfoy's release. Does he strike you as the sort who would miss a mandatory appointment on a whim?"

Harry took a moment to think. "No, I wouldn't think so," he said carefully. What would Malfoy do? He scarcely knew, though at one time in his life he thought he'd understood him well.

"He isn't stupid enough to provoke the Ministry unnecessarily," he finally decided.

Kingsley nodded. "We have already sent an owl to inform Malfoy that he should expect a representative from the Ministry at his home tomorrow for an interview. I would like you to go."

"Me?" Harry asked incredulously. "I don't think Malfoy would take well to being interviewed by me." He didn't bother mentioning his own displeasure at the prospect, which he figured would be readily apparent.

"I know you have a history with the Malfoys, particularly with Draco. But I trust your judgment. I have a feeling that he might talk to you differently than he would an unknown wizard."

He'll bite my head off, Harry thought. But he trusted Kingsley's judgment as well, so he did not attempt to get out of the assignment.

"What should I ask him?" Harry said.

"There are several main points. Why he did not come to today's meeting, to start. What he is doing. How he is doing. You also have the option of searching his home for Dark materials if you are suspicious, although I do not think that is the problem."

"If I may – you said that you had some ideas," said Harry. "What do you think the problem is?"

Kingsley paused. "It may or may not surprise you to learn this, Harry, but Mr. Malfoy is an extremely unhappy young man. I think a visit with you would be both informative for the Ministry and helpful for him."

Standing in the driveway of Malfoy Manor, Harry once again wondered about the second part of that statement. Harry didn't consider himself to be especially helpful with unhappy people, and all the worse if it were Malfoy. He sighed. He knew it would be better to get on with it. He began walking toward Malfoy Manor.

When he reached the front door, he paused for just a second, then gave it a firm rap. Almost instantly, the door opened, revealing a wizened old house-elf.

"Harry Potter from the Ministry of Magic to see Draco Malfoy," Harry said in his most professional tone.

The elf said nothing, but opened the door more widely to allow him entry. "Follow me, if you please," the house-elf squeaked.

He led Harry down a dimly lit but still opulent corridor, the walls of which were hung with gilt-framed paintings. After a few twists and turns, the elf led him into a small, well-appointed parlor.

"Harry Potter from the Ministry of Magic," squeaked the elf.

"Thank you," said Draco, and the elf took his leave.

It was fair to say that things had taken an unexpected turn from Draco's point of view, but he had no time to adjust to the new snare. He rose from his seat and extended his hand.

"Potter," said Draco, his familiar drawl edged with disuse.

Harry remembered that moment, ten years ago now, when he had refused Malfoy's hand and his friendship. He could not have imagined that the boy of that moment would become the man now standing in front of him. While Draco had always been slender, he now looked downright gaunt; his face was dominated by angles and the shadows under his eyes. And although his clothes remained as fine as ever, the way they hung on him suggested that they had been purchased some time ago. But mostly he noticed Draco's eyes – he had often seen arrogance in them in the past, or cowardice. This Draco looked defeated – cowed, even. Not at peace.

Harry winced slightly as he took Draco's hand – not because of past grievances, but simply because it was cold and bony, unpleasant to touch.

"Feel free to sit down," said Draco as he eased himself into an ornate armchair. It looked decidedly uncomfortable to Harry, who sat down on an overstuffed sofa, but Draco did not seem to notice.

Harry got straight to the point. "You missed your appointment at the Ministry yesterday. Why?"

Draco exhaled lightly. He was not happy that he did not have a smooth explanation. He did not relish having to justify himself to Potter, of all people. Part of him wanted to brazen his way through it, to save face after everything else. But he knew he could not muster the effort to keep it up for very long.

"I didn't feel up to it," he said finally.

Harry waited for more, but Draco simply looked at him.

"Have you been ill?" asked Harry, hoping the inquiry would be simple. Now that he was face to face with Malfoy, memories of Hogwarts had come flooding back to him – and memories involving Malfoy were generally less than happy. Harry was older now, not so quick to fly off the handle, but he was unsure how long he could keep his temper in check if the interview turned out to be an extended one.

"Not precisely," said Draco. He seemed to be casting about for what to say. "No, I don't think so, no."

Harry sighed inwardly. Not going to be easy, then.

"So you essentially have no explanation for why you missed your appointment yesterday," said Harry.

I couldn't leave the Manor, Draco wanted to say. But he knew it would sound ridiculous the moment he said it aloud. Instead, he just shook his head.

Harry tried to understand what Draco was playing at. He'd expected defiance, or the unhappiness Kingsley spoke of, but Draco was almost without affect at all, making him very difficult to read. He decided to proceed with what he knew.

"You must be aware at this point, that your appointments with the Ministry are not intended to be punitive." Draco was no longer looking at his, but he forged ahead. "We might have a reason to be concerned, though. With your lack of occupation, for example. Too much idle time on your hands…"

Draco snorted. Harry started slightly.

"Is that how V-Voldemort got started, then?" Draco asked. He was still clearly unused to using that name, although there was a new fierceness in his manner. "Too much idle time?"

He noticed Harry's eyes narrow and he remembered his desire to be done with this interview – such comments would not serve him well.

"I'm not a threat, Potter," he said more calmly. "I don't even leave the bloody house."

Harry paused to absorb this information. He suddenly shivered. He had no trouble understanding why Draco's hand had been so icy.

"You're cold," Draco observed neutrally. "Tea?"

Harry nodded and Draco summoned a house-elf. Without delay, they had hot tea and biscuits. Harry took a chocolate biscuit as they momentarily sat in silence. He was uncertain as to how to continue.

"The chill set in," said Draco, "after he came." He gestured toward the crackling fire. "Doesn't make too much of a difference. But I've gotten used to it, I suppose."

"You live here alone," said Harry, a bit abruptly.

"Well, there are the house-elves…" said Draco

"But your parents–" started Harry.

"Are on the Continent. Surely you have some sort of file."

"Certainly," said Harry a bit coolly as he tapped his bag. "Just needed to confirm." He took a sip of tea.

Draco watched the tendrils of steam rise from his own cup, but made no move to drink from it. He had no reason to feel so ill at ease, he thought, except he knew that Potter was nothing if not stubborn. Even if Harry was not particularly pleased with the task at hand, which Draco judged to be true, he would no doubt see it through. Draco had the urge to quit the room, and he would have acted on it were he not so sure that Harry would follow him.

"So to sum up, so far, if you will," said Harry. "You have no occupation, no housemates, and no reason why you missed yesterday's appointment."

"When you put it that way, it's rather dispiriting," Draco mumbled.

If Harry heard this, he did not acknowledge it. "Have you considered taking a job?"

Draco seemed to mull it over. "I didn't suppose I'd make a very attractive candidate for most jobs," he said.

"What about the Ministry?" asked Harry.

"_Working_ for the Ministry?" Draco was tempted to laugh – an unusual sensation of late. "I can't see that going over well."

"You were determined to be working for Voldemort under duress. The Ministry would not discriminate against you."

"You think not?" asked Draco. "You think I could walk in with this" –he pulled up his jumper sleeve to reveal a bruise-like scar on his forearm – "and no one would bat an eyelash?" He was intense, but not angry, as he spoke. He had moved up to the edge of his seat and was leaning toward Harry.

Harry's patience – never his strong point, particularly with regard to Malfoy – was starting to wear thin. "Every wizard alive survived the war, Malfoy. You're not going to get a special dispensation for that," he said.

"But I do get special monitoring," Draco retorted.

"For your own good," said Harry sharply. "Would you rather that no one even pretended to care? That you were just left up here to rot?"

Draco shrugged with irritation. "You can't possibly imagine that _this_, this patronizing interview with you, is what I want." His desire to maintain neutrality had subsided. He was going to have to endure the questioning anyway, and he saw little point in being pleasant for Potter's sake.

Harry took some more tea. Malfoy seemed as though he were waking up from a long sleep – ironic, given that he looked as though he hadn't slept in ages.

"You seem to be under the mistaken impression that the Ministry sent me here just to annoy you, or that they're out to get you," Harry said. "The Ministry is a new institution under Kingsley Shacklebolt. Too many people died during the war. No one wants to see those who managed to survive throw away their lives."

Did he care, Harry thought as he spoke. Did he really care if Draco Malfoy wanted to mope around the Manor for the rest of his life? He'd made his peace with Malfoy's past deeds, to the best of his ability, but he didn't feel much in the way of goodwill. Still, he found the state of things surprisingly depressing. Perhaps if Malfoy himself seemed even reasonably content he could have written it off. But at this point he could only pity him. This unexpected feeling only added to the awkwardness of the proceedings.

Draco hadn't responded to Harry's last comment, so Harry decided to continue. "So when I go back to the Ministry, they're going to want to hear that you are doing well. That you are a contributing member of society. So far I don't have anything good to tell them."

Draco gave him a wan smile. "You could tell them that I have very good biscuits. You certainly seem to like them."

Harry had indeed already had three, but it just reminded him that Draco hadn't had any.

"Considering that _you_ are not eating them, I don't think that will be relevant," said Harry.

"If I ate a biscuit, would that be helpful to you?" asked Draco with a hint of amusement.

"I think it would be more helpful to you; you look as though you're starving," Harry said.

Draco's face hardened. "Well, I'm not hungry, so I'm afraid we're both out of luck."

It was uncomfortable but Harry felt he had to press the point. "You realize your health will be a point of interest, yes?"

"I told you that I'm not ill," said Draco.

"So then you're telling me you don't know why–" Harry groped for the best way of phrasing it and came up short.

"I'm telling you that I'm not hungry," snapped Draco.

"Fine," said Harry tersely. "But I think the Ministry will be concerned. It's not healthy."

"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey," said Draco facetiously.

Harry rolled his eyes and decided to let that issue drop for the moment. "So tell me what you do all day?" He prepared himself for more bitterness, but Draco simply looked him over seriously. He then stood up.

"Come," Draco said, and walked out of the room.

Harry got up and followed him out of the room. Draco strode purposefully down the hallway, back through its twists and turns, until they came upon a large paneled door. It was distinguished from the other doors along the hall only due to its sheer size.

Draco opened the door, and Harry followed him inside. They were standing in a very large library. It seemed to Harry that it might house more books than the library at Hogwarts, but it may have only appeared that way because the books were _everywhere_, Books were open on every available surface and piled in precarious stacks around the room. Furthermore, the walls were lined with bookcases, stretching high enough that Harry would have considered using a broom to get the uppermost shelf rather than a ladder. The room, not surprisingly, was decorated in green – from the sumptuous emerald drapes to the matching plush chairs. Yet in one chair there was an inexplicably scarlet pillow.

Draco followed Harry's gaze. "I nicked it from your common room," he said, sounding almost apologetic. "It was on a dare."

"How did you–" Harry started, but Draco interrupted.

"It was a long time ago," he said a bit wearily. "I can hardly remember."

Draco sat in the chair with the scarlet pillow, which seemed to be his habitual spot, judging by the slightly higher concentration of books in its vicinity – not to mention the quills, parchment, and various bottles and cauldrons. He gestured for Harry to take a seat as well.

"Are you still cold?" Draco asked, but he did not wait for a reply before Summoning the tea tray from the parlor. He did so quite smoothly, too, with nary a stray drop.

"So you read," said Harry, reclaiming his tea.

"I study," corrected Draco, indicating his other supplies.

"Study for what?" asked Harry.

"To get better," said Draco simply.

"So you have ambitions," Harry countered.

"I am, after all, a Slytherin," said Draco dryly.

Harry, who had no immediate response to that truth, took a sip of tea.

Draco unaccountably felt the urge to be honest, and continued: "I was distracted in my last two years at Hogwarts. I didn't do as well as I could have done, or learn as much as I ought to have. I'm making up for lost time."

"Surely three years of independent study is enough to catch up," said Harry.

"I'm not a very consistent scholar," said Draco. He was unhappy with his growing candor with Potter, however, and stopped talking.

"How so?" asked Harry after a brief silence.

"It doesn't really matter, does it?" sad Draco. "Haven't you got a report yet? Lives alone, reads all day, generally a pariah, etc." He paused. "Oh, and too thin," he added, with a bit of a sneer.

The sneer, if nothing else, reminded Harry of the Malfoy he had known at school, which perhaps inspired him to mutter, "You need to see a shrink, is what I should write."

"See a _what_?" said Draco sharply.

"Nothing," replied Harry. "I think we should take a break."

"Just as well," said Draco, with relief. "You're not making any sense."

"If you don't mind, I'll go for a walk," said Harry.

"Fine," said Draco dismissively. "You'll know where to find me."

**Harry** was frustrated. If he left at this point, he wouldn't have accomplished anything. He'd have a report, of sorts, but it would be difficult to draw a conclusion. He didn't think Malfoy was a threat, at least. But he wanted to give the Ministry something that would be helpful to them. To Malfoy, even, maybe.

Harry was walking along a garden path. The greenery was lush and well-maintained, and Harry found it calming. The easiest thing, he thought, would be to refer Malfoy to someone who specialized in dealing with wizards who had been highly involved with the war. The kind of person whom Hermione had encouraged him to see on more than one occasion.

Yet, even in envisioning that course of action, Harry remained unsatisfied. As he had told Hermione, kindly but firmly, there wasn't really anyone who knew what he had been through, and he doubted the usefulness of trying to explain it. Malfoy had also been put in a uniquely difficult position. How was Malfoy supposed to talk through what had happened at the Astronomy Tower, for example? It was impossible to really share such an experience with someone who hadn't been there.

But Harry _had_ been there. He couldn't claim to understand Malfoy, but he figured he could do a better job of talking with him than some wizard with no first-hand experience with Voldemort.

On the other hand, thought Harry, it was _Malfoy_. He had been irritated with him within ten minutes of seeing him. He was difficult to read and generally obnoxious. Harry sighed, and kept walking. He was going to need more time to work this out.

**As** soon as Harry had left the library, Draco had collapsed back into his chair. They hadn't been at it very long at all, really, but he was already exhausted. The fact that it was Potter just made matters worse.

Draco reached down to draw a nearby ottoman over to his feet. He slouched down and placed his feet on the ottoman, then tried in vain to find a comfortable position. He closed his eyes. He just needed to shut out the world for a little while. He shifted abruptly, and his elbow jammed into a hard section of the chair's arm. He swore and opened his eyes.

He pulled up the sleeve of his jumper to examine his elbow. It felt tender to the touch and unsurprisingly sharp. Bloody Potter, thought Draco. His fingers absently traced their way down to his wrist.

He knew he was thin. More than thin, he'd always been thin. But it had been discomforting to have Potter point it out. He felt exposed, vulnerable. It had been naïve to think that he could put on a good front for the Ministry when his own body had given him away instantly.

It's not healthy, Potter had said, and he was right. Still, Draco didn't see how he could do much about it. The tension he had felt when serving under Voldemort had never really left him. His stomach was often in knots as though something were about to happen, something to be nervous about. Something to fear. Most days, the idea of eating left him slightly nauseated.

Tea might be nice, though, he thought, and he set about reheating his. His throat was slightly dry; he'd grown unused to so much talking. He took a small sip and wondered how he would be able to convince Potter to leave. And then another idea popped, unbidden, into his head – perhaps he didn't want Potter to leave, after all. Certainly, Draco found him frequently irritating. But sparring with Potter was a refreshing change from the passivity of reading. Even as he found himself annoyed or upset, some small part of him was enjoying it. It seemed so…normal.

He exhaled with frustration. He tried to cast his thoughts back to a happier time. His childhood, when the Dark Lord had just been a disembodied spirit roaming the wilderness. His father had been powerful and his mother had doted on him. He still got regular letters from his mother, of course, littered with phrases like "dearest Draco" and inducements to join his parents. He had never been inclined to do so. He'd rather be an outcast in his own home than in some strange place.

As his thoughts drifted, he let his eyelids flutter closed. He settled into a shallow, dreamless sleep.

**After** a few false turns, Harry managed to find his way back to the library. He opened the door and encountered the rather unexpected sight of Malfoy, fast asleep. He supposed he would have thought, hoped even, that Malfoy was more at peace while sleeping, but it was clear that the tension had not left his face. One part of him wanted to leave him be and spare himself any further unpleasantness, but while outside he'd resolved to try harder.

He cleared his throat in an effort to rouse Malfoy. He felt a bit ridiculous, as though he had cast himself as the stern professor playing opposite Malfoy's naughty school boy. And where, precisely, in his job description was there anything about waking wayward wizards from their afternoon naps?

Evidently Malfoy hadn't been sleeping that deeply after all, for he woke with a start and managed to bang his elbow once again in the process. He glared at Harry and rubbed his elbow gingerly.

Now there's the Malfoy I know and love, thought Harry wryly. He took his seat opposite Malfoy and watched as the other man attempted to straighten his clothes and smooth his hair, the latter to no avail.

"I was going to ask you what you did for fun, but I may already have my answer," said Harry.

"Hilarious," said Malfoy, with a sneer.

"The funny thing, actually," said Harry, "is that I would have guessed that you hardly sleep at all."

Draco noticed that Harry's tone had changed; the last comment hadn't been derisive. Indeed, even though he had said it lightly, it almost seemed as though he…cared. Draco was once again aware of his own vulnerability. Imagine what his father would think if he learned that Harry Potter could have freely roamed throughout Malfoy Manor while Draco slept. His anger was mounting, both at Potter and his trying line of inquiry and at his own weakness. Weaknesses, rather. Of which there were many, he knew.

"I sleep when I can," said Draco a touch defensively. "It helps when people don't barge in and wake me up…" He was going to say more, but he knew it was a terrible argument. Might as well let Potter write "insomniac" in his file and be done with it. Had he actually wanted Potter to stay longer? How absurd, really.

"I don't sleep well," Draco finally said. "You can add that to the list of faults you're compiling over there."

"I'm not making a pro/con list, Malfoy," said Harry. "But you're right, it is important," he added as he scribbled something on a piece of parchment.

"What's the next question?" asked Malfoy, not eager to linger over the issue of sleep, or lack thereof.

"Well, I suppose you never answered my last question. What is it that you do for fun?"

"I told you," said Draco, gesturing to the room around them. "I study."

Harry paused for a second. Up until this point he had avoided directly referencing their shared time at school, but now he felt it would help him figure out the Malfoy who was sitting before him.

"What did you do for fun at Hogwarts?" Harry asked. "Not study, surely. Hung out with your cronies, picked on me and my friends–"

Draco glared and Harry made a concerted effort to avoid that train of thought.

"Quidditch, of course," he continued. "When's the last time you played?"

Draco blinked a bit with confusion. It wasn't that he had _forgotten_ Quidditch, exactly – indeed, in some of his only good dreams he was high in the air, feeling the flutter of the Snitch in his hand. It was just that it had never really occurred to him to try to play again. Quidditch was part of his old life – this Draco couldn't remember the last time he'd been on a broom.

He covered his momentary surprise with a bit of sarcasm: "You reckon I should form a team with the house-elves?"

Harry resisted the urge to throw the sarcasm right back at him. "You wouldn't need a team," Harry said carefully. "I would think it would be diverting if you just flew around a bit. Got some fresh air." It made Harry feel quite old to treat Malfoy so diplomatically. Could he ever have imagined, when he was at Hogwarts, that he would ever sincerely advise Malfoy to "get some fresh air"?

"If you didn't want fresh air, of course," Harry continued, trying to diffuse the tension in the room, "You could practically play Quidditch in here. The ceilings are quite high, aren't they?"

Draco had clearly only been half paying attention, for he answered, "We couldn't possibly play Quidditch in here, Potter. In the gardens, perhaps. Playing Quidditch hardly seems like official Ministry business, though." He looked up at Harry somewhat expectantly.

"Well, that's not precisely what I meant," Harry said awkwardly. "You could play Quidditch some other time. At your leisure."

"Of course," said Draco coolly. Yet another mistake, he thought to himself. Of course, indeed.

Harry was thinking quickly. He had not been explicitly instructed to cheer Malfoy up, but perhaps it was the sort of action that Kingsley had hoped for in sending him. Would it really be so awful, thought Harry, to make the proceedings a little more enjoyable? It couldn't be that detrimental, at least.

"We could, though," Harry said. "Obviously we don't have the teams, or the goals, or any sort of real equipment. But we could put something together, I think. If you thought it would be helpful."

Draco wasn't sure what to think. The whole idea was a bit patronizing, that Harry Potter had to rescue him once again, this time from his dull, solitary life. Still, it would be interesting. Fine, it could be fun, he admitted to himself. And, despite everything, that old House rivalry had never really died away.

"I reckon we have a couple of brooms lying around here," Draco said, and Harry saw a tiny hint of a smile.

Draco stood up a bit too quickly, swayed slightly, but then steadied himself. Harry looked on with some concern.

"Perhaps you should have a little something," Harry said tentatively. "We can't very well play Quidditch if I'm worried about you falling off your broom."

"Never stopped me from playing you," Draco muttered.

Harry said nothing. "I apologize," said Draco somewhat stiffly. "I shouldn't have made light of that."

Harry just nodded. "Some of these biscuits, perhaps?"

Draco looked at Harry wearily. "I'm really not hungry."

He then brightened somewhat, recalling what they were planning to do. "Don't worry, Potter, it will be fine. Let's do it." He began walking toward the door.

Harry had started to second guess himself, but he also disliked the idea of talking Malfoy out of it. He got up and followed Draco out the door.

They once again made their way through the labyrinthine hallways of Malfoy Manor. This time Harry was watching Draco's movement closely, but he didn't notice any shaky steps; it seemed at this point the excitement of the proposed game was keeping his energy up.

Draco opened up a storage room and began rifling through odds and ends. Harry couldn't help but think that there had been a time when he would have given anything to access a room like this, to find something that would clearly link the Malfoys to Voldement's return. But now everything looked fairly ordinary – well, ordinary by wizarding standards, that is.

Draco handed Harry a broom and a small latched box. Harry felt a smile twitch on his lips. It had been a long time since he'd played Quidditch, too.

Draco got his own broom and led Harry back outside. They kept walking until they found an open grassy space.

"I used to practice here," said Draco, glancing at Harry. "I suppose you never really got to practice away from school."

"It wouldn't have gone over well, no," said Harry.

"Just naturally good, then." Harry couldn't tell if he was impressed or jealous.

Harry shrugged. "So, are you ready?" he asked, holding up the box.

Draco pushed a lock of hair behind his ear and mounted his broom. He nodded at Harry.

Harry unlatched the box and allowed the Snitch to fly out; it quickly darted far above their heads.

They both zoomed high into the air. Neither one was quite as graceful as he had been back at school. Draco, in particular, was quite rusty on his broom. Still, he loved the feeling of the cool air on his face as he flew, scanning the area for any sign of the Snitch, which was already out of sight. He did his best to block out any encroaching thoughts about his life and focus on the Snitch. He wondered if he would actually be able to get to the Snitch before Potter. History was not on his side, certainly. Yet another line of thought it was better not to pursue.

Ten minutes passed with no sign of the Snitch, but they were both so lost in the game that they hardly noticed. Like Draco, Harry was remembering Quidditch games past. He wondered if he were to see the Snitch, if he should contrive to let Draco have it. He immediately dismissed the idea, as he didn't think he could pull it off without Draco catching on – and he imagined his response to that would be far worse than his response to losing. Harry realized this idea was only the latest in the series of unusual thoughts he'd had that afternoon.

While Harry was thinking this, Draco felt something brush past his sleeve. Luck, he thought, as he spotted the Snitch, which was sailing downward. Before Harry saw it, Draco immediately followed it, speeding toward the ground. Within seconds, he felt the Snitch quivering in his hand. He barely had time to process the sensation before realizing he was not going to be able to pull up his broom in time, and he proceeded to crash straight to the ground. Harry, who had been watching slightly agog at Draco's rapid descent, quickly flew down to check on him.

Draco's eyes were closed and he certainly looked worse for wear – but he was smiling faintly. His hand still clutched the Snitch.

"Malfoy," Harry said as he crouched down beside him. "Are you okay?"

Draco blinked a few times. "Hurts a bit," he admitted. "Feels good, though."

He slowly sat upright and brushed some of the grass off his jumper. "Beat Harry Potter in my own garden. That'll be enough excitement for a year," he said with a wry smile.

Harry couldn't help it, he actually laughed. Even Draco was a bit startled. "Oh, I don't know," said Harry. "You might still top this."

Draco's smile faded as he awkwardly stood up. "Doubtful," he said a bit darkly.

Harry picked up the Snitch's box and brought it back to Draco. Draco took it and gently placed the Snitch inside, then latched it. Just when Harry thought Draco might stalk back into the house without another word, he turned to Harry and extended his hand.

"Good game," Draco said as they shook hands. "I appreciate it."

Harry recognized that such a statement, deceptively simple, was not made without effort. He nodded in agreement and followed a limping Draco, first back to the storage room and then to the library.

Once again, they sat down opposite one another. "What's next?" asked Draco, rubbing his shoulder.

"Are you sure you're okay?" asked Harry.

"I think you've ascertained that I'm not okay," said Draco indifferently, looking about the room. "But I'll survive."

Harry wasn't sure what to say, simply because he wasn't so sure about anything to do with Malfoy. One game of Quidditch didn't change everything. It didn't necessarily change anything, actually.

"Will you?" asked Harry.

Draco exhaled and looked at Harry. "That's a terrible question," he finally said.

"I'm sorry," Harry said. Then: "I think you should come to the Ministry soon. Tomorrow, or next week. Come talk to someone – me, if you like, though I'd understand if you'd rather not. I could talk to Kingsley – find a good match."

Draco didn't say anything for a minute. He was trying to gauge himself, whether he thought he would be able to. He felt so tired.

"What if I want to come, but I can't. Feel I can't, rather," he said clumsily.

Harry looked at him, and before he knew exactly what he was saying, he said, "I'll come get you. I'll figure something out."

Draco was contemplative. "You'd really do that?"

Harry shrugged. "It's the right thing to do."

Draco nodded as though he should have expected that answer.

"I may not feel well," he said. "Sometimes I just…" his voice trailed off.

"Don't make excuses yet," said Harry.

"It's not an excuse –" Draco began, irritation creeping into his voice.

"Fine," said Harry.

A pause. "Does your scar ever still bother you?" Draco asked.

If the question surprised Harry, he didn't show it. "No. Not since it ended."

Draco nodded. "I could beg your forgiveness," he said suddenly. "For everything that I did. For all of the small, stupid things to everything that ended up – well, I hardly need to remind you." He paused. "You probably think I'm too proud to beg forgiveness." Harry did nothing to show disagreement, and Draco smiled slightly. "Perhaps I am. Though I hardly have any reason to be proud, at this point." Another pause. "What do you think?"

"I'm sorry," said Harry, "Was there actually an apology in there?"

"Not yet," admitted Draco.

"I don't know what it was like to grow up like you did," said Harry. "And I would hardly expect you to try to understand me, though it would have been nice a few years back. But I know that those things – those serious things – I know you were doing them to save yourself, and your family."

"I could have let myself be killed, to stop everything," said Draco.

"It wouldn't have stopped anything," said Harry. "There would have been someone else who would have taken your place. Perhaps even someone who really wanted to do it."

Draco didn't say anything for a moment. His eyes were cast down at the floor "All the same, I'm sorry."

Harry had less of an idea of how to handle a penitent Malfoy than he did of how to handle a depressed Malfoy.

"I'm sorry, too," was all he could think to say. They sat in silence.

Finally, Draco looked up and met Harry's eyes. "Tomorrow," he said. "I'll try to come tomorrow."

"I think it would be good," said Harry simply. It was time for him to take his leave. "I should go,"

"Yes," said Draco. "Thank you." He seemed slightly dazed, and Harry realized he was probably reliving some part of what he had alluded to.

Harry hesitated, then stood up and walked over to Draco. He gently put his hand on his shoulder, and Draco looked up. He focused and Harry could see him pulling himself together. Like Harry, Draco assuredly had had a lot of practice tamping down bad memories.

Harry removed his hand, and Draco stood up as well, albeit more slowly and more carefully than Harry. "I'll see you out," he said.

As they walked through the corridors again, Harry wondered if he would be back. Would Draco come to the Ministry willingly, or would his current circumstances interfere? Harry strongly felt there was no decision – Draco needed all of the help he could get. He hoped that the Ministry would see things the same way.

They had reached the front door, which Draco opened wide.

Harry extended his hand. "I wish you well," he said.

Draco nodded. As drained as Draco had looked earlier, Harry couldn't help but notice that he looked doubly so now. The sooner Draco came in to the Ministry, the better.

"I will try," said Draco, and that was all he said. Harry understood.

They bade each other good night, and Harry stepped out onto the walkway. He walked a few paces, then turned back to look at the Manor, which looked particularly grand in the setting sun. He knew he couldn't explain this day to his friends – to even think of it seemed like a betrayal. With that thought, he Disapparated.

As soon as Draco closed the door, he took a huge breath of air. It was over for now. It had to be tomorrow, though, he thought as he walked toward the library, limping slightly. He couldn't think past tomorrow, anyway.

After he entered the library, he eased himself into his chair. He adjusted the scarlet pillow to better support him, and he closed his eyes. In his mind, he was back up in the air, feeling the breeze ruffle his hair as he glided along.

Soon, he thought, it would be time to fly again.


End file.
